Doctor on the Rooftop
by Dildont
Summary: Three years. It had been three years since Sherlock had killed himself and John had had it. Post-Reichenbach. Rated T for suicide attempts.


Three years. It had been three years since Sherlock had killed himself and John had had it. He was trying to be strong, he was trying to move on and get over his death, god, he even went back to that sad excuse of a therapist. But he was tired, tired of missing Sherlock. So that's why he was in a cab, on his way to St. Bart's hospital, with 4 pills that he had taken from the surgery in his coat pocket. Today would be the day he'd see Sherlock again.

* * *

Sherlock was in the morgue of St. Bart's arguing with Molly. "It's not safe for him to know." he spat. "Yes, but you'll lose him of you don't! At least, that's what Mycroft keeps saying" Molly argued. "He wouldn't." "He's lost everything Sherlock."

* * *

As the cab pulled up the hospital, the scene from three years ago played through his mind. John squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out. He paid the cabbie, made his way past the security with a flash of his medical licence, and took the long staircase to the roof. This is where he had done it. This is where his best friend had killed himself. John wandered over to the ledge, and sat on it facing inward, not wanting to be frightened off by the height. He took the 4 pills out of his pocket, along with a bottle of water he'd been carrying. Two of the pills were a poison, similar to what they'd give a person on death row; the other two were to keep his stomach from rejecting them.

He breathed a few times before opening the water and popping the pills into his mouth, swallowing them in one go. "Well, this is it then." His voice was hoarse, it sounded so tired. He'd not done much talking that wasn't crying out for his dead friend to come back. It'd take about half an hour. That's all. Then he'd get to see Sherlock again.

* * *

"Sherlock, at least think about it will you? Preferably where no one will see you." Molly huffed, finding any arguments against Sherlock pretty much pointless.

"The roof then?"

"As long as you don't jump again" she chuckled. "Don't make jokes Molly, you are dreadful at them." Sherlock stalked out of the room, taking the stairs and being happy for once about the lazy portion of London. He opened the door to the rooftop.

John lifted his head, which had been hung down as he waited to die. Someone had come onto the roof. This was bad, if John lost consciousness in their presence they could easily take him back into the hospital to get his stomach pumped in time. Eyeing the ground below, john decided that if it came down to it, he'd jump. Just like Sherlock did. He once again turned his eyes to the stranger across the roof, who was mostly hidden by the door. He wasn't sure what, but something about this person felt all too familiar.

Sherlock pushed through the heavy door and registered vaguely that someone else was up here. He looked about with narrow eyes, and then they widened exponentially. "J-john?" Sherlock's brain was racing, he hadn't calculated this. "Why are you here?"

That voice. No, why was he hearing that voice. John's eyes focused on the man across the roof and they began to fill with tears. "No" _It couldn't be him _"**No.**" He saw him _die_, he saw his _corpse_! "No!" he screamed. Squeezing his eyes closed and clapping his hands over his ears, the doctor tried to make sense of this. _The pills. _The pills, of course! He must be hallucinating. _Yes, yes, that makes so much more sense. _

Sherlock approached John as he focussed in on him. _He wouldn't be here, he saw me commit suicide here. This doesn't make sense. _He went forward and grabbed John's wrist. His pulse was racing. "John!" He grabbed the other wrist and attempted to pull the other off the ledge. John had other plans. He tried to 'reclaim' his arms form the "hallucination", pulling and tugging, nearly falling backwards off the roof in the process. Then he handed a kick, right into "Sherlock's" stomach, knocking him off.

John stood up, backing up as far as he could without falling. "Stop it. Stop this! I don't…" a pained sob was choked back "I don't want to see you unless you're **real**!" His arms flew to his head and grabbed at his hair, tears now falling freely down his weathered cheeks as he choked out "Oh, god, why won't I just die already?"

Sherlock, bewildered, took a step backwards. "John, tell me you're not. You're not summiting suicide…not here." His eyes blown wide, he began pleading with the distraught man. "John, please. Just come downstairs with me. I can get you help." He reached a shaking hand out. "I'm real John, please believe me. The first thing I asked you was "Afghanistan or Iraq?" remember? John…?" Sherlock watched carefully as John began slowly walking backwards, knowing that if he went any further, John would just pitch himself off the edge.

"Shut up, just SHUT. UP." John's breathing was becoming laboured and unstable as he began to shake and wobble. "You aren't **real!** **Why do you always insist on showing up?**

John had hoped the hallucinations wouldn't bother him today. There had been so many times when John would wake up in the middle of the night to a violin playing from the sitting room. He'd throw off the covers and make a mad dash to the room, only to find it empty every time. He'd end up in Sherlock's bed, crying himself to sleep on nights like that.

He shook his head as a very sad, tired smile crept across his face as he stared into the eyes of the 'hallucination' in front of him. "I suppose it doesn't matter. I'll get to see the real you soon enough, wont I?"

Sherlock felt the unfamiliar trickle of water in his eyes. "John Watson, I cannot lose you again. This is the real me, I'm not a hallucination, and if you leave me I will never forgive myself, because it will have been my fault. Now stop this and tell me what you've done!" The Consulting Detective's voice almost shook.

"You should know about the pills, you're only in my imagination after all." John turned his now, quite cloudy eyes to the ground. "And besides, Sherlock wouldn't cry over someone as terribly ordinary as me." He lost his balance, to Sherlock's relief he fell sideways, cursing when he hit the ground.

"John, listen to me. You aren't ordinary. No ordinary person could have out up with me." The words the doctor had spoken earlier just hit him, as he lunged forward to grab his hand. "What pills?" he yelled, tears not streaming down that pale face.

"Took 'em from th' surgery…'s like what they execute people with…" his speech was beginning to slur, as the pills started to do their job. His eyelids suddenly seemed to weigh a ton, as he struggled to keep them open.

"John" Sherlock just barely managed to choke out as he tried his best to carry his best friend, towards the stairs. The tears were still sliding. "Don't you dare leave me. Just let me get the drug out of your system."

"But," the words were so quiet now "you left me." And with that, John Watson fell unconscious in his best friend's arms. Sherlock had managed to get him to the elevator as he speed dialled Molly. "Molly, find a doctor, It's John…" he yelled into the phone as the elevator began its descent.

* * *

John dreamt of the time he had spent with Sherlock. Their first adventure, the time in Baskerville, the damned experiments in the kitchen. John hoped, with every fibre of his being, that in the afterlife, if there is one that is, everything could go back to normal.

Sherlock sat beside the unconscious man in the hospital bed, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. John stirred, and then his eyes blinked open and a weak voice sounded out. "That's it then." He chuckled "I'm dead."

"And that is where you are wrong John. Thanks to the doctors." Sherlock scoffed, attempting to hide the overwhelming relief welling up inside him. "I wasn't letting you end your life"

John's head lolled to the left, eyebrows knitted together, trying to identify the source of the voice. "H-how" was all he could manage. "I'll explain when you are more coherent. But you can be reassured I won't be leaving you now. Please just know it was for you, okay?"

He shot up in the bed, immediately doubling over in pain. God his stomach killed, his head wasn't exactly pleasant either. Despite the pain, he sat up strait and fixed his eyes once more on Sherlock's. "No." he said firmly. "Now. Tell me now."

"Moriarty" Sherlock said softly. "He had snipers, on you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. If I didn't jump, you'd all be dead. So I took out Moriarty's web, to ensure the safety of you three." He attempted to explain. John stared at him with a bewildered expression. "And," he was shaking now, his hands clenching up into tight fists.

"You never thought to tell me you were alive? God Sherlock! Do you have any idea what I went through? I tried to _kill_ myself for you!"

"John if for one second, they had even an inkling you knew you'd be dead! I would not lose you like that. I would not let them kill you. Friends are supposed to protect each other. That's what I did." He idly started drumming his fingers again "I'm sorry John"

John scoffed. "Sorry. Sorry doesn't make it all better Sherlock! You didn't accidentally spill tea on my jumper; "Sorry" isn't going to do _anything!_" He ran his hands through his hair sighing. He'd never been so damned angry, no furious in his life. But, Sherlock was alive. Shouldn't he be happy? Shouldn't he be hugging him and crying tears of joy instead of screaming?

Sherlock looked to the ground. He almost looked broken; worried he may never get his friend back. "John. I'm not trying to make it all better. I'm trying to make you understand that if I could have gone without risking losing you, I would have. I'd rather be lying in the ground than have you there."

John had never seen Sherlock so, upset, so broken. It sort of startled him into realising that maybe he meant it and maybe things could go back to the way they used to be. "Sherlock, if you ever pull something like this again…"

"No John. I wouldn't dream of it. If I do you'll know, and you'll be right there at my side." Sherlock whispered, fighting tears back.

John reached out and pulled Sherlock into a hug so tight, it hurt his arms, but he didn't care. He cried into his best friend's shoulder as he clung. "You are a bloody idiot you know"

"So you've said." Sherlock chuckled, wrapping his arms around John. They had no idea how long they had stayed like that. All that mattered to either of them was that their best friend was alive and well.


End file.
